"We're buried, ain't we? The only thing is, we ain't dead."

- Collins (Burt Lancaster, Brute Force, 1947)


"So aliens invading New York wasn't enough for you?" Steve and the strange woman have been combing through the rows of shelves making small conversation that has been loud enough for nearby visitors and local readers to hear. She doesn't bother to interrupt them, nor does she wait for a lull in their conversation to grab their attention – rather, Diana stays as far away as possible from the duo as she darts in and out of their vicinity. Because like her, they are also hunting down the novels and biographies which had caught the missing, Everett Sterns' attention in the past.

"And what are you doing back in New York?" She catches Steve rebuke. She quietly juggles the handful of books in her arms as she maneuvers her way past the stacks and into the alcoves and lines of tables. There are a few people settled at the tables, but not enough to blend into. Caught between veering off into some corner for a more obscure location, Diana finds the decision already made for her as Steve and his accomplice's bright flash of red hair come peeping into the periphery of her vision. She doesn't even hiss out a bubbling curse as she darts into another row of books.

"SHIELD's vacating the premise. I'm just here to handle the more fragile parts of the move."

The woman works for SHIELD. SHIELD is back in New York City. Diana shouldn't be surprised, but to hear that a possibly main figure is back in the area has her wishing that she stayed home that night. Maybe then she would not be in such close contact with the world's most prying organization. Yet, she glances back at the books in her arms – she has always found fault in her inability to ignore malfeasance. Especially when a case such as the one she had tangled herself in is unraveling to seem more than a minor theft. However, before she can really address the other gnawing part of the mystery surrounding the stolen documents, the murdered scientist, and the missing assistant – Steve's voice alerts her that her moment for evasion has all but fled.

She doesn't smile, she won't pretend to dismiss the afternoon's events, but she does nod at him in acknowledgement. With this opportunity, Diana also takes the time to glance over at his companion. Where she has stolen snap shots of the woman's fleeting profile, she can now see her for who she truly is – the Black Widow. What company you keep, Steve. "Hello," she greets them both. She has seen the woman on the television, on the news; heard her name discreetly passed in bars and social galas. If she tries hard enough, Diana can also probably recall a time when she saw a younger girl with wide eyes staring upwards from an open courtyard in the scarlet capital of Russia. But if she was Natasha? She doesn't remember the date, nor the coloring of her hair, but she knows Black Widow's origin well enough to be wary of the woman. Her gaze darts back to Steve, beseeching him to make the introduction.

"This is Natasha," he gets the hint. He chances a quick glance at her but the redhead doesn't make an inkling of her feelings or thoughts known to either him or Diana. "She's a friend of mine and Natasha, meet Diana, she –"

"Helping you with the case," Natasha nods. "Pleasure."

Icy.

Her voice is cold, but Diana can only assume that the woman normally comes across as that. She has nothing but rumored words to compare her stature to, so she settles with a placid smile. "Likewise –"

"And what books do you have there?" Natasha interrupts, striding forward. The woman doesn't wait for an answer as pries two of the five out of her arms. Literally. Diana can only control her lips from parting in surprise as the Black Widow takes the two books into separate hands and reads their titles. "Looks like your partner is ahead of you, Steve." Diana wonders if the woman is trying to smile at her, but guesses that the Black Widow is better than false flattery and frowns at her condescending smirk. "Here –" She shoves the two books into Steve's chest as he walks towards them, a protest hanging at his lips.

"Natasha –" he flashes Diana an apologetic glance – one, she ignores as the Black Widow continues to steal her accumulated documents.

"Look at the books, Steve," Natasha snaps. "Did you know your partner already had them before we came here?"

Steve lets out a breath – heavy and tired, but he obeys and reads the titles. He can feel the gazes of both women waiting to gauge his reaction, but he only gives them one blank stare before he stows the novels under one arm. "Yes, I did." He is lying and he knows that both of them can clearly see the truth in his words, but neither woman goes for the fire and drops the knives they were wounding behind their closed-lipped expressions. "There's a smaller area for reading towards the back if you keep going straight, Diana," he tells the dark-haired woman. Her face is so devoid of emotion that it he almost wonders if she too is hiding some dark, secret past. But then he recalls that she does have a golden lasso somewhere on her person and sighs. "We'll catch up with you soon."

He doesn't know why Natasha is being hostile to her and he hopes it reads through his eyes, but Diana only holds his gaze for a second before she nods and turns. She doesn't even bother to ask for the books back, and he can only hope that her golden lasso did not come with heightened hearing before he turns on his companion.

"Natasha," he says, exasperatedly. But when he sees the woman, she is only grinning. And it is terrifying. She hands Steve the final book she had taken from Diana before crossing her arms; her disposition completely barren of the hostility she had seethed just moments ago. He watches in confusion as she cranes her head toward the direction that Diana had headed off to.

He is not ready for the words she says next. "Couldn't have picked a better one myself, Steve, but isn't she – I don't know, a bit out of your league?" It's completely out of line, out of subject, and he fixes Natasha with an incredulous look.

"What?"

"That serum affect more than your muscles, flag boy?" He hopes to dear God that Diana did not have enhanced hearing and that the only specialty about her is her golden lasso. With that in mind, he begins to trace Diana's steps in hopes that with her closer, the assassin beside him would rescind any more of her words. But he has to admit to the fact that a weight has left his chest as the levity of her previous enmity finally translates through his head. She had been assessing Diana, and with whatever checklist she had drawn out for her, the strange woman had met all her requirements.

"So are you here to help us look for Rourke or not?" He can see Diana now, seated at a table, flipping the pages of one of the books Natasha had allowed her to keep. Her hair has been pulled away from her face, tied off into a sleek bun only practice could achieve, and for a moment, he wishes he had a camera or a pad or pencil to draw the picturesque statue that was she.

But reckless attention be damned, he doesn't have to see to feel the delight the said assassin is reveling in at making the same observations as him. "Who says I can't help and torment you at the same time? "she replies, and her voice is loud. Too loud, and he can almost see Diana casually tilt her head towards their direction that he wishes he had paused and reassessed and readdressed Natasha on how to handle this situation.

"Natasha –"he has stopped walking but the assassin has not. Rather, she only halts once she is a few more steps away from Diana, and this time, when she turns around to address Steve – he can see the certain joyful spite that dances across her bright green eyes.

"Sorry, is this just the first date? Am I getting in the way to –" Steve almost groans. Almost.

"You're fine, Natasha. If anything, you may just be disrupting the silence but no one seems to mind that." No one is near enough to be disrupted, but he doesn't comment on that lest he wants to bait them to relocate to a more populated section of the library. He can only bear so much with an audience.

"I'm sorry for taking your books, by the way," the two women continue to converse, ignorant to Steve's growing plight. "I just wanted to get a good read of Steve's new girl."

Natasha is many things, this he knows. And artful with words, he knows she is. But this? "Oh my god," he finally opens his eyes as he looks up.

"Steve!" He stares at her, at Natasha's brazen grin. "And here I thought you were religious."

"I am," he gives her, even though he knows she knows this already. But he is not a god to be so adherent to all the rules of his Catholic faith. He moves past the woman to take the chair across from Diana, hoping to finally, maybe return to the reason of this venture. From the side, he spots a slow smile curling the corners of Diana's lips.

"Speaking of religion," she presses her palms flat out on either side of the book open in front of her. "Our missing scientist seems to have held an interest in a different set of gods." She pushes the book toward Steve and he sees the telltale signs of worn and bent edges. Natasha joins his perusal and flips the book close to see the title.

"Greek Religion, by Walter Burkert," she slowly enunciates.

"He was a professor at Zurich, interesting man," Diana supplies for them. "Unfortunately, he's been retired since 1996 and at this age, I doubt he would be welcome or able to withstand some questioning."

"But is he even linked to Sterns?" Steve asks both of them. He finishes going over the first two books that had been shoved into his arms and settles himself back into his seat. In this position, Diana notices he has angled himself to view not only the two of them, but also the rest of the library beyond. Steve Rogers is a paranoid man under all his casual bravado and well-tuned manners.

"No, not that I know of," she answers. "I have a colleague who had fought for a time to correspond with him, but otherwise he is as much of a private man as they go."

"You do history?" Natasha questions, dropping the last book onto the table.

Diana nods her head in affirmation. "I work in restoration."

"Interesting," Natasha replies. "And here I thought you were a model. You must have a passion for saving old things," she comments. Diana stares at the redhead, seeing the game she wants to play out and smiles demurely at her.

"Thank you, and I do," she says. "I enjoy saving things that want to be saved."

"Makes you two a pair then," Diana watches Natasha grin at Steve. The woman is resilient, but for what she wants to come out of her teasing, she cannot see. Steve groans again and crosses his arms.

"Natasha –"

"Hey," the assassin cuts in. "I say what I see, but I also know when I'm not needed anymore. I'll drop by the tower tonight after I'm done with the roundup," she nods at Diana. "Let me know if it doesn't work out with this fossil," she bids farewell.

Diana sights Steve raising a palm to cover his face and instantly, laughter bubbles from her lips. "It was nice meeting you, Natasha." She waits for the redhead to disappear past the stacks before she turns on Steve. "She is interesting –"

"And too curious," Steve finishes, suddenly regretting the isolated setting. Without Natasha to staunch the fire, he is all but vulnerable to the remnants of Diana's previous fury. He doesn't pretend to hope that it has faded, something tells him that her words were founded from some deeper belief in something he had carelessly disregarded. "Ha – have you found anything from these books?"

"Other than in his interest in Greek mythology and the transmigration of souls? Maybe – Steve, what I said earlier –"

"I know, and I –"

"No, listen." Diana fixes him an unreadable stare. "I will not apologize for my actions, but I will apologize for my words. You did not deserve them," she finishes. "And for that I understand if you do not require my help anymore."

Steve stares at her, but she is careful. And older. She has seen this scene play out many a time before. So she retreats into herself as he asses her. Her face is a granite slate – free of expression, but guarded. Always guarded. She knows she had made a mistake; she had made a handful of them since the gala. But can she be faulted? She thought she was beyond the hauntings of a name, but she had always been weaker when it came to things that touched Steve Trevor. And when it became evident that Steve Rogers, the man behind Captain America, is just the same as him? (Possibly more guileless, less tactful, more bravado and good – gods, she couldn't recall a time when she met someone so good –) It became harder for her to distinguish past from present and see Rogers for the man he is and not the man Trevor was.

She watches with careful eyes as Steve processes her words, his gaze cast downward, his arms no longer crossed and resting on the armrests of the wooden chair. If he is planning to terminate their acquaintanceship, she would accept it – maybe even revel in the freedom from being in such close contact with a reminder of Trevor, and walk away; Steve Rogers, Captain America, and East would all just be another part of her history to crunch up in a wadded ball for the untouched corners of brain to bury. Yet if he is going to do that, she realizes, he is taking far too long to announce it.

"I asked you a question and you haven't given me the complete answer yet," he looks up at her. "Have you found anything from these books?"

Diana holds his gaze. "I have, and I have a man who may be able to help us decipher more about our missing man," she doesn't miss a beat and grabs one of the books on the table and directs it toward Steve. "Christoph Riedweg will be able to guide us through the lines."

"Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching, and Influence," Steve mimics Natasha's previous actions and recites the title. "He was a real person, though, right? Pythagoras? Didn't he invent our math?"

"Part of our math," there is a spark of mirth in her tone. "But yes, he is real. Sterns did not take this book out - this one is from my own perusing. I've met Christoph once, and I can draft us an email for him once we get more solid evidence of what exactly Sterns is looking for." She doesn't like the lack of verbal confirmation, but she supposes Steve finds apologies as abhorrent as she does so she makes do with his nonchalance, and moves on to the next chapter of their mystery.

"The investigators at the fire haven't sent me anything yet, but as for the things they found at Dr. Javier's apartment," his voice trails off as he tries to recall the message. "There was a philosopher that was killed by his own students? Or poison, wasn't there, Diana?"

She nods. "Yes, Socrates was sentenced to death and forced to drink hemlock. Highly poisonous to humans, affects our central nerve system –"her eyes sharpen. "Are you saying that Dr. Javier was poisoned? With hemlock?"

"Yes," Steve grimly confirms.

Diana stands up. "This is insane," she states with a shake of her head. "I hope hemlock is not easily accessible in America, is it? It is native to Europe, but they are carefully grown and removed if found in highly-populated areas."

"I," Steve flounders for the right words. "I don't know," he finally admits. "I could get JARVIS to look for nearby suppliers, maybe see if he can find Sterns purchasing some –"

"Yes, yes, that could work." Diana begins to collect the books on the table. Steve stands to help midway through. She notices he eyes her larger pile but makes no comment. She wonders if he has been quick to learn and reassess how he treats her; if so she appreciates it as she guides them to the books' rightful shelves.

"What do you think this all means?" Steve quietly asks as they work in tandem to return the books. It's a menial task that could have been given to the librarians to do, but she finds the familiar motions comforting – stalling. And while she has never been a fan of wasted time, she finds herself taking solace in these quiet moments more often now that her life has found its orbit around one superhero.

"I have suspicions," Diana acquiesces to Steve, taking the offered book in his hand. She slides it back into its rightful position and navigates them towards the rows concerning Greek history. "But that is all they are. Suspicions."

"And are those suspicions what got you here without me telling you about what I found?"

Diana doesn't pause at the question. "I enjoy reading," she responds easily. "And like I said, I enjoy old things too. Written word is comforting."

"And predictable."

"And predictable is bad?" She chances a glance over at him. Steve isn't looking at her, and his eyebrows are clustered at the center of his forehead. "Why do I feel like we're just walking around in circles? Wasting time?"

"We're doing what we can," Diana knows he isn't really asking her the questions, but she has had the experience of dealing with bubbling frustration and rushing into things too early to make a sense of. "You know that, Steve."

He nods at her words, but he isn't satiated by them. Diana carefully takes the last book out of his hands and places it back in its rightful spot. "You said JARVIS can help us. Go to the tower, Steve while I stay on the ground and see if we missed anything."

"I don't think –"

The sight of bright light erupting behind Diana swallows his words, and before he can react, he finds her own wild eyes catching his surprised gaze first before he feels her body colliding against his. Instinctively, he curls an arm around Diana's waist, pushing her as close as possible to his chest as his other arm reaches for one of the shelves. He has miniscule seconds, but he is able to grasp onto the hard wood and when he does, he pulls and throws his arm ground Diana's head – flipping their positions as much as he can so that his back can take the brunt of the falling books and hard wood.

And in the midst of the burning pages, and frenzied shouting, he can only focus on his memory of red lips and Diana's personal scent of mixed rosemary and lavender intermingling with some kind of store-bought perfume. The world continues to fall around them but in that moment, that is the only thing he centers his focus on before giving his consciousness away to a dreamless slumber.